Whispering Pines Rehabilitation Center Rewrite
by QuietViolence
Summary: Modern Day: Several of our favorite boys and plenty of others are sent to Whispering Pines for rehab from their different problems. What adventures unfold? You'll just have to read to find out. [Slash, Drug Use, Swearing. Sputchy, Blush, possibly Sprace]
1. Chapter 1

Title: Whispering Pines Rewrite

Author: QuietViolence

Summary: Several of our favorite boys and plenty of our readers are sent to Whispering Pines for rehab from their different problems. What adventures unfold? You'll just have to read to find out.

Rating: PG-13 (at least for now)

Warnings: Slash, mature language, mature content (eventually), and mentions of substance abuse and self injury.

AN: I'm trying to rewrite this story in hopes of being able to get myself out of the hole I backed into. A couple parts of this are directly from the other chapter, but most of it is quite a bit different, though I guess technically the same main events happen.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, and I really don't have much of anything worth much except for some good j-rock PVs, so suing me really wouldn't help anyway.

IMPORTANT: Once this story gets to the same point as the other one (or deviates so ridiculously far from the original, which it's already starting to do), I will delete that. Until then, I'm leaving both versions up.

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**That, of course, is the devil's bargain of addiction: a short-term good feeling in exchange for the steady meltdown of one's life.**

When I walked into my house one Thursday afternoon, I didn't realize just how much my life was about to change. Before I barreled up the stairs I barely noted we had company. Once I had set my stuff down, procrastination kicked in, and I sat on the top of the stairs, listening to my mother and her guest.

I caught a glimpse of the woman sitting opposite my mother, both on matching white couches. She was tall and thin, wearing a navy business suit that was most likely from Neimans, but it could have been Saks too. Either way, it was evident she wasn't short on money. So, Miss Expensive-Navy-Suit was sitting there, conversing with my mother, who, I noted a second later, had tears welling in her eyes. Since my father had left three years ago, I'd become even more protective of my mother than normal. I walked down the stairs towards her, but as I reached the room, conversation came to a complete standstill. Wiping her eyes on her red sleeve, she motioned for me to come into the room.

"Jayce, honey, we need to talk. The other day I made quite a shocking discovery. I was cleaning your closet, and well…" Oh, no. I knew exactly what she was going to say. And worst off, I knew she wasn't going to be angry, like any other mother, she was going to be upset and blame herself. She'd never believe me that it had all been my father's fault, and not her own. "I found some things that were slightly less than legal."

Fuck. I knew this would happen, of course, but I guess everyone is convinced they'll kick the habit before it hurts someone they love. And I could already see it hurt my mother; considering she was the only person left who really cared about me, it was difficult. "I'm really sorry, Mom. You don't even understand how sorry I am," I said, hugging her. I knew in my situation some people would have tried to deny it, or play it off as if they didn't care. I'd be lying if I did either, and lying never really suited me too well. A moment later, I looked up at the woman in the navy suit, suddenly aware that a stranger was viewing an extremely intimate moment. "What are you doing here, exactly?" I asked, trying not to sound rude.

She glared, obviously annoyed. "Your mother called to talk about where to send you for rehab," she stated blandly, though a look of disapproval was evident in her eyes. She turned back to my mother, as if trying to forget I existed. "I really think you s hould look at this brochure. Whisperings Pines is just wonderful, I haven't heard a bad thing about it in quite a while," she told my mother, holding up a colorful tri-fold brochure. She glanced up at me and her eyes scanned my pink streaked blonde hair, shiny silver tank and rock star tight jeans before she said in a whisper, "They're more excepting of the," she paused and coughed loudly. "**Different **types."

I laughed loudly when she finished her sentence, amused by this woman's homophobic speech impediment. She couldn't even say the world! "The word is homosexual, miss," I said before resolutely walking out of the room, not returning to the family room until I heard the end of their conversation. As black stilettos crossed our hardwood hallway floor at a brisk pace, I walked and sat back down next to my mother.

"Jayce," she said. "I just don't, know what to do about this." Tears were forming in her eyes again, and something about them gnawed at my heart, making me feel guiltier than I had since at least before I turned five. "I want you here with me, I want to help you. But I can't help you the same way they can there. They're professionals, they know what's best. Please, don't think I don't love you." At this point she dissolved into tears, and I didn't know what to do other than grab the brochure from her hand and walk into the kitchen.

I grabbed the phone and dialed the number. "Uh, yes, hello. My name is Jayce Taylor, And I'd like to check myself into rehab," I informed the person on the other end of the line. The receptionist seemed slightly surprised when I explained that I was seventeen, living with my mother, not in any legal trouble, and voluntarily booking myself into a hellish few months of withdrawal and therapy. But it was just – not worth making my mother place the call. She still amazes me with her aptitude for raising children; I can't let her think my problems were caused by her parenting. After twenty more minutes of talking with the receptionist at Whispering Pines, I'd secured myself a spot in their drug rehab program. Ten minutes later and I had a one-way plane ticket to New Jersey, leaving that Saturday.

"Mom," I said, shaking her slightly. She had drifted off in a heap on the couch, and I was worried about her. When she looked up at me, I told her about the plans. "I want to go, I want to make myself better and make you proud," I told her, meaning every word of what I said. She smiled and squeezed my hand before I headed upstairs to pack.

That night I packed up my things with a mix of sorrow and relief. My stuff took up nearly four bags, and bedding and towels were provided at the facility. I had to have my clothes: multiple tight and bright shirts, about seven different pairs of designer jeans, platform shoes, etc; my jewelry, which meant my seventeen different earrings for my thrice pierced ear as well as all my bracelets and necklaces; my hair dye, all six colors; and my tackle box sized makeup container. Such is the closet of a gay man. Or, at least, a flaming gay man.

I glanced towards my closet, wishing my stash was still there. I needed the ecstasy. It made everything seem all right, and made all my bad feelings disappear. It was an amazing feeling, one I'd become addicted to quite easily when I was an impressionable sophomore just over two years ago. When my then-boyfriend Thomas handed me the pills and told me to take them, I didn't even question. I'd just wanted to seem cool to Thom, who was a senior and somewhat of a rebel. But in the end, I'd lost him **and **fucked my life over. What a right little sob story I've got going, ain't it?

Because of my stupidity at fifteen, I was now paying. I rose early Saturday morning, around six o'clock, and got dressed. I emerged from my room at 6:30, went into my mom's bedroom and gave her a goodbye hug, and then hopped into my car and headed towards the airport. Traffic was better than usual, for one reason or another, and I ended up at the airport with quite a bit of time to spare. I checked in and glanced down at my watch: 7:14 a.m.

Noticing a Starbucks, I gathered up my two bags and ran off to order a Venti caramel frappuccino. The boy behind the counter quickly made my drink before glancing back at me with a look of slight interest. "Are you heading off to Whispering Pines?" he inquired.

"What's it to you?" I demanded. I was self-concious, sure, but can you blame me.

He laughed a bit, "Calm down, boy, you aren't the only one headed there this morning. I, for one, have tickets for a plane which departs within the hour." He put the last bit of whipped cream on my frappuccino before glancing at the clock. "And I should be heading towards the gate as soon as my shift ends. Which would be," he handed me the drink. "Right now," he announced before pulling off his apron. He hopped over the counter and grabbed a duffle bag from the floor across the room.

"So, how'd you figure it out?" I asked, curious.

He let out a slight chuckle. "You have the brochure in your pocket," he informed me matter-of-factly. "I'm not that smart, but I can deduct something like that."

"Fair enough," I said, smiling a bit myself. Just knowing that there was going to be someone at Whispering Pines who wasn't crazy was enough for me. He seemed like an all right guy, and that was a relief. I looked him over again. He was wearing ripped and baggy jeans, a t-shirt that said "The Clash," and had a black bandana tied around his head. His dirty-blonde hair covered his eyes. "And your name would be?"

"Kelly, Jack Kelly. Well, that's what I'm known as anyway. And you?"

"Jayce Taylor. Most people call me Dutchy though," I added, almost as an afterthought.

He grinned a bit, making his lip piercing more noticeable than before. With piercing in mind I looked at his face again and noticed a small silver hoop decorated his eyebrow as well. "I take it you're Dutch, then?"

"Nope, from the Ukraine actually. It's a sad, sad story beginning early in my childhood," I joked, grinning. "Nah, actually it's from seventh grade, when we were drawing flags. I tried to draw the French flag, and ended up doing it upside down, which is of course the Dutch flag. And you know Jr. High, they found that hysterical. And I've been known as Dutchy for nearly five years since."

"Man, that's gay." He paused a second later and looked at me. "I mean, stupid. Sorry 'bout that."

I felt myself smile. "Trust me, the only thing about your opinions on homosexuality that upset me is that you aren't gay. You're damn sexy."

"You better not be in my room, Dutch boy," he responded, not at all caught off guard by my comment. "Ever been here before?" I shook my head. "No? This'll be my.." He counted on his fingers quickly. "second year and seventh visit here. I only have to come back every once in a while to check up on me, but they busted me again."

"What're you in for?" I asked as we started walking towards gate C27 where our plane was scheduled to depart from.

"Bit of an alcohol problem," he admitted. "Well, more like a major alcohol problem, actually. Like a passing out at least four nights out of seven from intoxication kind of alcohol problem." He looked over at me. "You?"

"Drugs," I said bluntly. Feeling as if I should elaborate, I continued, "Mostly ecstasy, but I dabbled in some others. Pretty much tried everything but heroin. The concept of injecting something just kinda creeps me out."

"Now boarding rows fifteen through ten," the loudspeaker announced.

I glanced at my ticket. 11A. "Guess I'll see you when we get there," I told him, grabbing my messenger bag. I sat myself down in the plane, grabbing my headphones. Jane's Addiction flooded through my ears as I pushed the play button and smiled.

So maybe I was about to have to go through hell, but optimism always seemed a better option to me.

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A/N: I'm a lot happier with the way this one came out. I took into consideration what people had said. Anyway, please let me know what you think, because the only way I can get better is constructive criticism.


	2. Chapter 2

**Illness tells us what we are – Italian Proverb**

I stepped off the plane into the terminal, a messenger bag hanging at my side with my CD player inside, the headphone cord leading up to my neck, where I'd set them. I saw Jack across the way, walking towards a man in a bright blue shirt, with khaki pants and a clipboard. Upon closer inspection I could see that on the right corner "Whispering Pines" was embroidered into the shirt. Figuring this was my destination, I approached the man who stared at me blankly for a moment.

"Name's Jayce Taylor. Am I on your list?" I said, pointing to the clipboard. He checked it and nodded. "All right, let's get this show on the road, I need to get there and fix my hair."

He glared at me, obviously annoyed by something about me, and I had a feeling it was my flamboyance. "We're waiting for the rest of the guests."

"Inmates," Jack said under his breath, coughing. I smiled, realizing how cute his whole rebel-without-a-cause act was. But don't get me wrong, this isn't some wayward love story of a gay boy falling for a straight boy. And Jack didn't seem like the relationship type anyway; he probably spent every night in a different girl's bed. But that's all just speculation really, for all I know he could have been married. Listen, the point of this paragraph was that I wasn't going to fall in love with this guy. No, it would be a very different boy that caught my heart. But now I'm getting ahead of myself.

I looked up and saw another girl walking towards us. She looked a couple years older than me, maybe. Twenty-one tops, but that would be surprising. She had on a short black kilt, a style of skirt I'd noticed to be quite popular that year, and a red shirt. A black messenger bag was strapped across her body, and I noted that every _heterosexual _man within a fifty mile radius was probably drawn to her chest.

So I wasn't all that surprised when Jack called out, "So, Theory, back so soon?" and then pulled her into a tight embrace. He kissed her quickly and spun her around. I couldn't help but feel a little bit jealous watching them. I had only had one relationship in the past year, and it wasn't exactly that positive of an experience.

"Wait, Jack," the girl, who I assumed was Theory, said, suddenly serious. "Why are you back here? Have you been relapsing?" I glanced at her and noted concern lingering behind her sparkling sapphire eyes that hid underneath sections of straight, layered brown hair that framed her face. She stared, waiting for an answer.

"No, MOTHER. I'm just checking back in to keep myself from relapsing. And, of course, to see you." He picked her up into another hug, his arms clinging to her like his life preserver – and maybe she was. She fought against him for a moment until he set her down, both with wide smiles on their faces. He subtly placed a gentle kiss on her forehead before whispering into her ear.

Her smile widened just a bit, as if screws had been let out to allow the maximum possible smile. "Nice to know you still feel the same; but seriously – not in front of the staff. I can't lose this job, it's hard to find another work opportunity when you were too doped up to take your SATs all four times you were supposed to." After a moment she glanced in my direction, as if noticing me for the first time – which was probably the case, she was completely absorbed in Jack. "And who is this handsome young man, Kelly?"

Jack looked back in my direction. I hate it when people talk about me as if I'm not there. "I'm Dutchy," I said, taking the intiative in order to prove my conversational competence. "And I take it your name is Theory?"

"Well, Ashton really, but that's my nickname. Call me what you will. For instance, Jacky-boy here tends to prefer 'sex goddess,' but that's just him." She smirked as Jack fumbled to cover up what was obviously a great story I'd have to ask someone about later. "Anyway, what're you in here for?"

And thus began the discussion I was sure we'd have many more times after this, explaining what exactly it was that we'd done to get locked up. Jack and his alcohol, Theory and her previous drug problems, me and my – well, me and my everything.

"Anyone else coming, Mr. Snyder?" Theory asked the man with the clipboard. "Or can we be off now?"

The man seemed annoyed that a girl whom he found so unfit for society – he was certainly glaring at her scarred arms – was attempting to do his job for him. "This is everyone. Now c'mon, let's get going. Mr. Kelly and Miss Oxford can explain the rules to you en route, Mr. Taylor."

When the three of us were seated and belted into the back of the van, the two veterans began to brief me on the "Code of Conduct" at Whispering Pines.

"The rules are as follows," Jack said, sounding an awful lot like the headmaster at the Catholic school I'd been booted out of two years ago for being gay. "Any person caught on premises with ANY harmful substance – be it their own vice or that belonging to someone else – they will be immediately expelled from the program and once again sent to court."

"Because we all know that when people have drug problems it's in their best interest to send them away from rehab, now isn't it?" Theory said with an edge of hatred in her voice. "Anyway, moving on… Inappropriate conduct between guests is strictly prohibited. Boys must stay in the 2nd story hallway and girls must stay in the 3rd floor hall."

"Other than that, you'll just have to figure it out on your own, because I don't really care if you know them or not," Jack said, then turned away from me, obviously not too hot on the concept of going back to Whispering Pines.

I noticed him staring at my highlights and glitter for a large percentage of the first half-hour of the drive, prompting me to question him about it. "What're ya staring at?" Hey, I never said I was eloquent.

"You're just so… so… gay." Hell, he might beat me out for the prize in eloquence. When he saw the blank look on my face he hurried to cover it up. "That's – that's not how I – I meant you're really open about… Hell, don't take that offensively."

Theory interrupted this almost painful display at this point in an effort to save Jack's last shred of dignity. "What my idiotic comrade is trying to say is that Whispering Pines isn't exactly the most accepting of _different _people," she said with strategically chosen words.

"You'd make one good lawyer, you know that?" I told her. I didn't know what else to say. I wasn't offended, exactly, but I'd never really considered that I would have to watch myself here as much as I watched myself at school. I mean, aren't druggies supposed to be accepted of people's differences? It's not like they're model citizens. "But thanks for letting me know ahead of time. I'll just roll with the punches though, eh?"

"Just le me know if you need to borrow more, um, masculine clothes," Jack offered awkwardly. I didn't give him a look because I knew how uncomfortable it made him, and because I knew he meant the offer seriously and well. Who knew, perhaps someday I really would need it.

"We're here!" the man shouted from the driver's seat as he parked the van in a large concrete lot. Multiple spaces were left empty, so it was obvious there weren't too many people coming in on this particular day. "Now get your stuff and get in there," he said gruffly. He picked up a couple bags and I noted that he intentionally grabbed those of Theory and Jack, leaving me to carry all of my own. Theory definitely wasn't lying about the homophobia thing, was she?

But whatever, it wasn't as if I hadn't grown accustomed to these sorts of things. And I really never concerned myself with other people's thoughts on any aspect of me, especially my sexual orientation; quite a bit more stress pertained to what they were planning to do about my drug problems. I searched the hallway, and everyone's eyes seemed to be dead, so obviously craving an escape into the wonderful world of vices. This was going to be a long three months, I told myself, wondering why I'd ever picked up that phone in the first place.

Before I knew it I had managed to locate room 311 the police code for indecent exposure – hot and hastily knocked on the standard issue rehabilitation white door. "Kallias?" I called, attempting to pronounce the bizarre Greek name of my new roommate as I stared at the piece of paper in my hand where it was written.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm in here," rang out from inside the room, followed efficiently with a "what do you want?" I could tell he was probably still lying on his bed which I imagined would be a standard mental institution style bed and making no move to let me into the room we would share.

"It's Jayce," I informed him. When he didn't respond, I continued, "Your new roommate."

Feet shuffled and locks clicked before the door flung open to reveal Kallias Diopolus, the boy I would be living with for the next three months. After catching sight of him, however, I suddenly did not mind so much. His dark hair formed adorable – well, I don't know what the word for them is. They weren't curls so much as waves. Whatever they were, they were gorgeous, as was his chiseled face beneath the round glasses he was wearing. He was dressed relatively nicely, a well-ironed button down and some pricey jeans, and I could tell he was probably one of those high-end pretty-boy cocaine addicts who finally got caught by the police and were only here to prevent it from marring their parent's society appearances. And yet, a haunting history was evident in his eyes, in the way his lips weren't quite able to smile. Hopefully, within the following three months – preferably on the earlier side of that – I might come to understand why.

But, snapping back to reality… So Kallias showed off our room, which looked a lot like a cross between a college dorm and a hospital – pretty much what I'd predicted. The walls are all ER white, as are the bed sheets, but there was a small private bathroom and a kitchenette in the room as well. I didn't really know what to make of it, actually. Most of the time you can tell a lot about a place by its bedrooms, but they didn't seem to want to give anything away ahead of time.

"So, truly, how bad is it?" I asked Kallias as I set my suitcases down on the unoccupied bed. Sitting down on the bare mattress I continued, "I mean, you figure it'd be total hell, since its rehab and all, but I'm being a bit of an optimist and hoping it's tolerable. Jack didn't seem to hate being back."

Kallias seemed to have a bit of a grin on his face, "Jack came back? Knew he couldn't stay away. Then again, I talked to him a couple days ago and he said he was clean – so I don't know if when he said he relapsed he really did. That would be hard to believe." With that his half-smile grew, until he continued, "Want the truth about Whispering Pines, though? Atrocious."

"Wait, Kallias, but then why would he come back?"

"First off, don't call me Kallias. I'm not exactly on good terms with the people that gave me that name. I much prefer Specs. But that aside, Jack came back because he's entirely in love with Theory, and she works here. When he left a while back we told him he wouldn't last six months without coming back for her. And, of course, we were right."

He paused for a while and it was quite evident that there should have been an awkward silence ensuing. But instead, I felt completely at ease being stuck in this room with a stranger. Of course, it did help that he was an insanely attractive stranger. "But either way, it's time for group counseling right now, so we'd better head out."

And thus began my first day of rehab…

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A/N: I still haven't gotten to the part where it's really going to start to change, but I am still hoping this is better. And, unlike when I first started rewriting this, I actually intend to finish it. Oh, and this isn't relevant that much except to later chapters, but I got rid of all of the CC characters that I don't actually know because I wasn't sure how people I got information from two years ago would feel about me continuing to use their characters, so don't get upset that I cut you, I cut everyone.


	3. Chapter 3

**It is not I who became addicted, it is my body. – Jean Cocteau**

So, apparently Whispering Pines enjoys the color white quite a bit. Especially white rooms. Not particularly surprising, but insanely unnerving. See, I can't even form real sentences, just fragments. Well, okay, that was a real sentence, but still. At any rate, I entered the room directly behind Kallias – I mean, Specs – and saw pretty much what I'd expected: about fifteen kids, girls and boys between the ages of sixteen and twenty, sitting in plastic chairs which formed a circular cage, looking bored and unhappy.

The woman, however, was something else entirely. Her frizzy red hair probably could have beat me in a fight – she could have been a smuggler, her orangey locks easily could hide at least two guns. Hell, illegal border-crossers could have fit into her mane. Her shirt, a horrid Vaudevillian-style affair, was the same shade of pink as most of the medicines in my cabinet back home. Fortunately, she wore a simple jean skirt underneath, so only half of her was frightening and overwhelming. Despite the multitude of make-up, however, I remained content with my assumption that the smile on her face was genuine.

"So, boys and girls, welcome to your first day of a new group counseling series. As many of you may know, every month with put you in with a different set of guests so you receive a different perspective. Assuredly you don't know everyone in the room since most activities are done with your counseling group, and there should not be anyone in here who previously shared a group. Knowing this, I prepared accordingly with a getting-to-know-you game." A groan resonated from seat to seat as the once unhappy kids now looked downright dejected; however, Medda managed to carry on without once allowing that grin to falter. "On this sheet of paper are statements. Your job is to fill in the name of a person who relates to each and have them initial beside it."

My eyes quickly scanned the page so that I could process the statements: 

_7. I know someone who has died from a narcotics overdose. __  
__11. I have served time in jail. __  
__12. I know all the words to the Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme song._

I almost laughed – it was good to see humor wasn't outlawed entirely at Whispering pines. But it also seemed like nothing was private information in the "community," either. Certain questions I just did not want to answer:

_14. I am a virgin._

"But first, standard introductions! I'll begin. My name is Medda Larkson, and I'm your main advisor here at Whispering Pines. I've never polluted my body with any sort of toxin, nor have I ever harmed myself, or had an eating disorder; however, I've worked with many children who have so I'm sure I can answer all questions and help you completely until full recovery." I stared, a little overwhelmed by the haughty attitude. But then she smiled again and whispered into my ear, "Sorry, they record the sessions, and we're required to say these pre-memorized speeches." Then I noticed her finger aimed directly at me and chuckled nervously. "Sorry, but you're seated on the right hand of death," she informed me, unable to feign remorse due to her growing smile.

"So, my name is Jayce Taylor. Everyone calls me Dutchy which, while I'm not a fan of it, is what I'm used to, so you can use that name too. I'm seventeen and should be in my senior year of high school back home in Oak Lawn, which is a suburb of Dallas, Texas. I guess my main vice was E, but I've tried pretty much any other drug except heroin, though – something about needles really gets to me. I can't think of anything else of any real consequence." I was about to pass it along to the girl beside me, but I decided I had to get one more fact in. "And, I like to kiss boys."

A young-looking girl with ink-colored hair and almost cloudy green eyes was in the chair next to me, her legs folded oddly up underneath her. She took her cue to start talking, "I'm not entirely sure what I'm here for; I'd been in rehab for drug use before, and in an attempt to avoid drugs at parties I took up alcohol, and consequently I'm currently here for alcoholism, though they keep telling me it's an extension of the same issues, so I'm really just trying to figure out what those are. The name's Aidan Marten or Chicago, though, and I'm twenty-one years old as of last week." Her age was a surprise, though it made a bit more sense of her obvious lack of faith in any rehabilitation center.

"Well, Miss Marten, I hope we can help you out and get you back on the right track without driving you through yet another painful ordeal," Medda said honestly. She motioned to the next person, who happened to be a blonde boy in an eye-patch. Yes, an eye-patch.

"Louis Ballat. I'm nineteen years old a week from tomorrow. I'm missing an eye, what the hell do you think my problem is? Do I need to spell it out for you? C-U-T-T-I-N-G." He paused for a second from his rant, and it was evident Medda was about to interrupt. "Sorry, I came off as a bastard when I said that. I'm just tired and worn down, don't hate me. I promise it won't happen again." Okay, that guy was definitely a bit off. And when I say a bit I mean miles off. Then again, we are in an all-purpose rehabilitation center, so who am I to judge?

Before Medda could comment on this outburst, the next girl cut her off. The dye job was very noticeable on her raven black hair – in fact, it was probably done in a bathroom sink somewhere. "Cheri DeWolfe. Sixteen years old, and not exactly pleased with my current location." People laughed in agreement. "But of course, the police made me, so here I am. Yeah, you want to know why I'm here? I'm here, and that's all you need to know." This entire speech was delivered with an intimidating glare of her dark brown eyes, daring someone to question the lack of information.

Even Medda attempted to avoid confrontation by simply refusing to speak until the next person started speaking. "I'm not even going to get into my real name, just call me Specs." Apparently, Medda had given up commenting on everyone's introductions. "Cocaine was my downfall, in case you were wondering. And my father shipped me off here so it would seem he only had to deal with a spot of teenage rebellion. Wouldn't want to tarnish his precious reputation in society, now would we?" Ah ha, so my suspicions of Specs were correct. He was indeed a rich little boy snorting coke. But he spoke with a bitter edge, proving the other comment I'd made; he definitely did not like being the hoity-toity boy he'd been raised to be. "Oh, and kissing boys is fun, now ain't it, Dutchy?

And while I must say I'm a very well coordinated boy – after all, fencing does do something for your ability to control your body's movements – the instant those words freed themselves from Specs' mouth, which was now plastered with a devious smirk, I definitely lost all of that. My chair tipped backwards, crashing to the ground with an intense bang. Noting his smirk widening, I couldn't help from imitating the facial expression – this was going to be an interesting living arrangement, I could tell.

"Moving right along…" Medda said, but I could see a sparkle in her eyes as she hurried us into introducing the next girl in the room.

"Sli, Slider, Katrina, Kat, whatever you prefer," she said rapidly. An awkward shimmer was present in her brown irises as she spoke. "I'm one strange little cookie, that's for sure. I'm eighteen, messed up, and in desperate need of sugar." With that, she reached into the pockets of her tight jeans and pulled forth a red package of Starburst and began to help herself.

Speed addict, I could tell. And obviously fresh in, seeing as even though her physical dependency had waned, she was still psychologically craving the drug. Made me glad I'd never gotten actually addicted to anything; dealing with weaning yourself from a drug addiction seemed to be the worst part of rehabilitation. Unless, of course, she was doing it for dramatic effect, which I began to suspect when I saw a huge smirk she was hiding behind her hand.

A few more people were introduced, and I can scarcely remember their names. After these lovely little introductions, we proceeded to scamper around the room trying to get someone to fill out their name next to the forms. Apparently, we weren't allowed to use our own names in an effort to make us communicate, but it made this much more difficult – you couldn't just walk up to people and ask them a certain question.

"Oi, Dutch boy, are you a virgin?" Elizabeth Petty, I believe, though I'm pretty sure I was supposed to call her Serial, was standing before me, her sense of humor shining as she amused herself simply by asking me a question on the sheet. Despite the fact that I towered over her 5'3 frame, I couldn't help but feel slightly intimidated. Green eyes sparkling, she tapped her foot awaiting my answer.

Unsure of what to do, I followed my first impulse; I turned and walked away. The rest of the game carried on without incident and Shot let me be, though she smirked at every opportunity – in a jesting manner; she definitely knew the reason I'd walked away. After about twenty minutes of filling out the form, and getting ridiculously sidetracked, I looked down at my sheet:

_I have a tattoo. _– Accidence

_I am of legal drinking age._ – Chicago

_There are more than seven televisions in my house._ – Specs

_My "issue" started before the age of fourteen. _– Blink

_I've been previously sent to rehab._ – Chicago

_In my mind, my parents are to blame for my "issue" –_ Frenchy

_I know someone who has died from a narcotics overdose._ – Serial

_I'm the one who checked myself into Whispering Pines._ –

_Paying for my vice required me to do something illegal _– Daniel/Snitch

_I can't stand to be by myself for more than a few hours _– Lost

_I have served time in jail ­­_– Sli

_I know all the words to the Fresh Prince theme song_. – Specs

_At my old school kids used to beat me up_. – Blink

_I am a virgin _–

_I secretly enjoyed this exercise _– Specs because of you, Dutchy

My reaction to the response for fifteen probably wasn't my greatest moment. Either way, I wasn't seeming to have much luck finding a virgin. Or someone who had checked themselves into rehab. And of course, since I was refusing to answer question fourteen in a relatively conspicuous fashion, that question was pretty much left blank throughout.

And on that note, morning group therapy was over, and fortunately there was an open hour to unpack and get around to meeting everyone before lunch. Fortunately, my roommate had already taken care of setting up his half of the room, so I could maintain some dignity while I unpacked. However, I'm not going to lie – I changed into what I considered to be one of my most flattering shirts, which happened to be a lot less flamboyant than most. It was a simple yet tight black t-shirt with a silver design, but the strip of stomach is showed off was impressively toned, I must say.

I headed in the direction of the large mass of kids, assuming that they were headed for the cafeteria, since I had no idea where I was going. But as I walked I noticed that a certain brunette beauty was walking off another way alone. I hastened my step and veered to the left to join him. As I walked up behind him I whispered in his ear, "Going somewhere?"

"I was hoping you'd follow," was all he said as he continued to lead me up a flight of stairs and back towards our bedroom. I was sincerely hoping that wasn't our destination, since I wasn't sure I could control myself around him now, and my wish was granted. We instead headed through another doorway past our own and up a small set of spiral stairs. Just the close proximity of our bodies sent chills through me; I feel the need to point out that it's not fair that non-virgins just don't seem to react to tension the same way. The steps carried us up two stories, and outside onto the roof. Maybe my expectations involved less than a brilliant seduction on the roof, but I was surprised to see what must have been nearly thirteen kids sitting on the roof eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and, evidently, arguing over whether Johnny Depp was hotter in _Benny and Joon _or _Pirates of the Caribbean. _

"Specsy, who's the new kid?" questioned a short Italian I hadn't seen yet. He grinned mischievously through a mop of curly black hair. Without waiting for a response, he continued, "He's pretty cute. You two can stay." Something about his face confused me, he didn't seem nearly as young as I initially thought; it was like watching someone's inner child invert itself, so that he looked young but was acting old. If that managed to make any sense.

"His name's Dutchy, he's new today. He's my roommate, so don't scare him off too soon," Specs responded. Somehow, despite hating having other people introduce me, just hearing the brunette say my name contented me.

I decided not to appear mute by asking, "What is this anyway? Some sort of secret society?" I laughed, but only slightly because it was impossible to determine the accuracy of my guess. However, one very tan, very beautifully sculpted boy stole my attention. He wasn't wearing a shirt, which was really quite distracting to me. However, little bitterness came over me when I saw him kissing that guy Blink from earlier today, I mean, I had Specs. Technically, I didn't have Specs, actually, but I would.

"Oi, new kid, focus. What we were trying to tell you is basically just that this is our safe haven. The counselors know we're up here, of course, which is why it's unlocked. But really only the ones who trust us enough to know we're not toking up. Basically, at the end of the day, it's relaxing to know you have somewhere you can come home too," the Serial explained once she gained my attention. I nodded, understanding the sentiment. "Anyway, I know introductions may be overwhelming you today, but you're going to hear them anyway. The one having his face practically mauled by Blink's tongue is Matthew, though most people call him Mush for reasons unknown. Our vertically challenged Italian friend would be Racetrack Higgins, while the girl sitting next to him is Artemis, or Art…" and so the introductions continued and Serial was right, I was overwhelmed. My brain probably retained about five names overall from that day, but I'd have quite a while to figure them all out. But the main reason why I remembered so few names involved a certain boy deciding to sit down next to me and set him hand on top of mine.

I lied earlier when I said that Specs seemed unable to smile; he seems to be downright grinning whenever he knows he's getting the better of me.

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A/N: Ok, here's the deal. I'm having trouble with female characters SO if you want to be in it let me know through email and mayhaps I'll kidnap your characters. Yeah. That's still allowed, right? Whatever. Don't report me.

Disclaimer still holds that anything you recognize probably isn't mine.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Still not mine, mostly. All female characters at the moment are strictly mine. As is Whispering Pines. Quote is attributed, but is from "Lost Souls," if you were wondering.

Warnings: Withdrawal symptoms, some confusing organic writing, and sadly no snogging. Yet.

A/N: I got really lost writing this chapter since I wrote it over the course of more than a week. I apologize earnestly for how muddled pieces of it are. I'm also not particularly good with consistency, but I'm working out ideas for the next chapter already, so I wouldn't worry too much. I'm also going to start writing obscenely long chapters soon, so you might have to wait longer for them. We're talking like, the written equivalent of "the Tain" or something.

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**I believe in whatever gets you through the night. Night is the hardest time to be alive. For me, anyway. It lasts so long, and four AM knows all my secrets. Four AM is when my dreams die. – Poppy Z. Brite  
**

It's three in the morning on my second day at Whispering Pines and I am gnawing at my hand so hard I'll be amazed if it survives until everyone starts waking up. I've been lying here all night and pushed myself past the point of exhaustion, but sleep just isn't coming. An image of just what would make this better floats into my mind's eye and I beg myself to forget about it, but I'm scared. I want control over my body again, and I'm starting to realize how much the drugs took that from me.

Yesterday in my private counseling session, Medda announced that I needed to find the source of my addiction. Because E isn't chemically addictive but psychologically addictive, it's evident there is a reason I cannot stop. She decided to work from the beginning onward, so I had to tell her just how I got into drugs. I hate this story, I always come off as idiotic – who actually caves into peer pressure now? Everyone laughs when their health class covers that section, especially in relation to drinking and drugs and yet, I am the poster child. Taking up drugs to impress an older, rebellious boyfriend? It's textbook.

"It actually started in a park during my sophomore year. It was November, probably around midnight, but since I'm from Texas the temperature was probably only about fifty degrees. Either way, I was with my boyfriend, Thom, and his senior friends. Some of the guys were complaining it was too cold, and the next thing I knew one of them – I think his name was Isaac or something like that – pulled out a bottle of pills. I was naïve enough to think they were Advil, initially!" I shouted, angered by how corrupted I had become because of some idiot whose name I couldn't even recall. Medda placed a motherly hand on my forearm and bid me to continue when I was ready. "And everyone started taking it and I heard one of them say it was X, and of course I'd heard all the lectures about drugs and retained most of them, despite mocking the speaker's tie the entire time, but everyone was saying how good it felt and when Thom handed the pills to me, I just took them without a thought."

"When was the next time you took them? What made you continue?" she asked, taking notes on a bright green clipboard that clashed painfully with her hair.

I blushed a little before explaining the true appeal of the drugs after the first night. It was the first time I'd ever hooked up with a boy, and the first time Thom told his friends about our relationship. We went back to his Honda and just messed around for a bit. But, at fifteen, I started to mistake what we had for love. "Of course, when he dumped me two months later because I wouldn't sleep with him, I realized how stupid I'd been. And yet, I kept up with the drugs. If you can tell me why, I'll be amazed."

And while we made a lot of headway according to Medda, one day could not dig up two years worth of psychological dependency. Which is what led me to be sitting with my legs over the side of my bed, trying to eat my own hand, going on twenty-two hours awake, which would turn into forty-two hours without sleeping if I stayed up until the day started. I knew to expect sleeplessness, and I was being warned against anxiety too. In fact, I suppose I was lucky to only be experiencing the withdrawal to the extent that I am. Because Ecstasy is not chemically addictive, I was sent directly to Whispering Pines, which is only for really for dealing with the mental aspect of it. Unfortunately, this left me pretty much alone in terms of suffering through the withdrawal. Specs explained that he and the others with addictions to hard drugs had just recently been transferred into the rehabilitation programs here.

I also learned that while the facilities were for all-purpose "issues," the counseling groups that had met yesterday only met once a week. The idea was for us to discuss our vices so that we could understand the similarities in our addictions, apparently. The other six days the group sessions would be divided between substance abuse, self-mutilation, and eating disorders. I worked through these facts again and again in my head, hoping to at least bore myself to sleep; apparently, counting sheep doesn't dissuade sleeplessness like stories would want you to believe.

The last time I remember looking at my watch it blinked 5:07 AM. I awoke at 7:15 to Specs shaking me, so evidently at some point I did manage to succumb to sleep like a semi-normal human being. Group actually started around nine, despite the fact that we'd had a belated abbreviated session the day before, courtesy of everyone's planes arriving at random times. In spite of that, once I realized that I only had an hour to get ready for they started serving breakfast around 9:15, I ran to the shower with enough energy that no one would have guessed how little I slept the night before.

Specs had already showered the night before, I knew, so I felt no need to hurry my own for any reason other than to do my makeup and hair in time to not miss breakfast. I nearly fell back into sleep standing under the warm water, the scent of my herbal shampoo exuding relaxation. It was an odd contrast to the stark, bare décor of the bathroom; I embraced it, knowing full well that the cheap imitation represented as close as I would get to home for a few months.

Drowsy but oddly content, I opened and was greeted by a _very _pants-less roommate. That drowsiness I mentioned? Completely gone. Of course I turned around and apologized, but perhaps my eyes lingered too long. Either way, the way his eyes sparkled I had to wonder if it the situation actually was coincidental. Two minutes post-incident, we started talking as I fixed my hair, both fully clothed. The mood fluctuated again when he turned and looked directly at my eyes in the reflection and asked, "So, what kept you up all night?"

Seven words, and really only about four of them were necessary, but I'm a believer in the power of semantics; Specs may not have noticed my hand twitching, but if anyone paid close attention to my eyeliner that day, they would have noticed the uneven lines. I hoped I could play it off with a joke. "Thinking of you, of course," I retorted.

There's a common cliché I heard over and over again in my English classes about people's eyes darkening when they're serious. Specs' eyes didn't darken, but they were extremely serious to the extent that I actually shuddered; something told me he wasn't going to let me off that easy. I sighed, which I seemed to do a lot more in the 48 hours or so since I'd left my house. I turned to make my bed and suddenly felt two hands on my shoulders, fingers playing my back almost like a violin. Apparently I can't handle nonverbal communication, which would explain a number of things including my slight gasp at that point. It was the first real contact we'd had, discounting the proximity of our hands the afternoon before. "You just need the distraction; if they let you come straight here, your withdrawal won't be all that painful. Just relax and don't think about it," a soothing voice whispering.

He wasn't angry, and that contributed to my relaxation just as much as the amazing things he was doing with some surprisingly delicate fingers. I don't know exactly why I expected that reaction, maybe it was the intensity in his eyes. "I'm not trying to hide things from you, you know. I just can't – never mind, I sound stupid. Let's get moving or we might miss group and whatever would we do then?" I said, my voice segueing into flippancy. I walked out of the room before Kallias could get back to me.

My departure was pretty futile considering Kallias and I were both headed towards the same therapy session for narcotics. Whispering Pines was small enough that it didn't separate us more specifically even for these meetings. I went over the people from yesterday in my head, trying to remember who would likely be there today. That Italian… Racetrack? Wasn't he in for heroin? And Arianna. By contrast, Serial, who I was slightly glad for since she always seemed to be able to make the situation awkward enough that I could hide in it. No one else came to mind, but I still had to meet plenty of people. The buildings were relatively close together though, so I ended up in Room 108 quickly enough and, as I'd expected, saw the three people I'd just named, two empty chairs for myself and Specs, and about three or four people I'd never met before.

I jumped into the seat between Racetrack and Arianna, figuring it was the safest place to be. Arianna didn't seem to speak all that much, which would avoid conversation, while Anthony hadn't exactly gotten used to me yet, so I could expect some silence from that side as well. About a minute after I sat down, Specs walked in. Since I knew he'd left right after me, I also assumed he'd been standing in the hall for a bit, waiting to make his entrance – what did he mean by that? Was he giving me space or trying to avoid me? I watched his lithe form make its way towards Kloppman, the counselor for the day (they rotated around so that everyone could have a few different ideas floating around) and whispering something in his ear. It was bizarre, watching him whisper towards the old bespectacled man in the same way as he had me earlier than morning. And yet, I knew the action was the same, but the intent, the approach, was staggeringly different.

"Well, because I hear that there have been some withdrawal problems amongst our members," Kloppman said, with a targeted glance in my direction, "I think that's probably a good way to start off the session. We've all been through it or are in the process, so it'll help us to relate. As you may know, each of your counselors will have a different approach to the group sessions, but this is mine – I deliver you with a topic or you invent your own, and then everyone discusses." With that, he sat back in his chair and left us to our own devices, only speaking a few times to correct facts and moderate anything that was getting out of hand.

When Racetrack, who was the first to speak, talked about his experiences in the hospital, I started to realize how lucky I was. I knew that I'd avoided hard drugs but that they were close behind me – that was the real reason I'd agreed to check myself in. But hearing this boy next to me talking, I finally understood why our nation had made these drugs illegal. Others contributed their histories as well and I just sat there, dumbfounded. I caught Serial's eyes for a minute and realized she had probably done ecstasy herself; the shock in my head resounded within her as well.

And I was spiraling downwards and realizing that these people, kids really, had gone through all of this hell to make themselves better again and they'd started for some pretty fucked up reasons, but nothing was as stupid as trying to look cool in front of a boyfriend and Race was describing the tremors and chills and how the insomnia kept him awake all night which just gave him longer to panic and that boy Swifty was saying the same things and Art knew those pains and the cold flashes and suddenly oh my god Specs and how had he made it through these things and why did I shrug him off when he knew how much pain I felt and more and I suddenly felt so lost and nervous and I thought I was falling falling falling – until two brown eyes matched mine and an arm kept me firmly on the chair and suddenly I was lifted and landing again in my bed almost as if in one movement and I felt those hands again and let my worries subside and drifted and dreamt of my mother and finally slept.

I awoke to a darkened bedroom and a sleeping Specs at the foot of my bed. A note taped to the alarm clock told me I had a fever and that I was excused for the rest of the day. Since we shared the space, they assumed Specs was ill as well and so he would be there with me, which explained why at six in the evening the Greek was lying where he was. I struggled to recall where I'd been, what had happened and I remembered therapy and exhaustion and then "You caught me," I whispered.

"Did you expect I wouldn't?" and those hands were at work again on my back. Had anyone in the history of the word lavished in the attention of this many backrubs in one day? "Oh, and for the record, we're pretty much stuck here for the next three days. A doctor came and looked at us, we've got some virus or something, and they can't risk the others getting sick – we've all got pretty weak immune systems. Don't worry, all we're missing is a couple of days of group they promised we could make up somehow, and they'll reschedule private sessions if we miss those."

"Why did you do it?" I questioned, turning to face Kallias. He seemed confused for a moment before opening his mouth to tell me that it wasn't like he was just going to let me fall to the floor and crack my head open. "No, I mean, why cocaine?"

"I was lonely," he answered cryptically. "You know how much they want you when you've got the drugs? It's like being a king or a general or something equally powerful. These people cannot exist without you, and you're their life source. For once I embraced my father's money and got what I thought I wanted – attention."

He was so beautifully broken and lost that on instinct I reached up and grabbed him. It was so much more urgent than a hug and I don't know that there is a word in any language to describe the action better than dependency, because I knew suddenly that there was a reason we were rooming together, why we were isolated together – we needed this.

I only resented him for breaking the silence before I heard his words. "We're both sick, you know," he started abruptly, "so you can't infect me, so we can be near each other. In fact, we could sleep just like this." My head on the pillow and his breathe on my neck – I lived a dream that night; I didn't stir in the slightest all evening, the cause was plainly evident on top of me and, when I did wake, I couldn't resist placing a slightly kiss on his forehead and whispering.

"You caught me."

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A/N: As I mentioned before, this is not going to be one of those longer chapters. But the next time is definitely going to be pretty long, since it should encompass three days of solitary confinement for our boys. I really didn't even notice I was writing them into this, so I realize it's pretty illogical. Whatever, this is my story and I can muck it up where I wish. Also, I have slightly trouble with consistency since I took so long to write this chapter, so if I say something that doesn't make sense (names don't line up, etc) then let me know.

I'd love some serious constructive criticism as well, so please give me some feedback on what I can improve on to make this story and my writing in general better. But I do feel the need to point out that I don't exactly exert all of my sentence structure efforts into fanfiction, sadly. Oh well, the next chapter might just have some snogging, so hopefully you'll forgive me for how messy this is?


	5. Chapter 5

**"****What I want is to be needed. What I need is to be indispensable to somebody. Who I need is somebody that will eat up all my free time, my ego, my attention. Somebody addicted to me. A mutual addiction.****" – Chuck Palahnuik**

"So you really are a virgin?" Specs asked, not sounding particularly surprised. Presumably he'd already caught on from my conspicuous avoidance of the answer on the first day, which founded my assumption that he simply intended on reveling in that knowledge.

I looked down at the seven fingers I still held up, opposing the two Specs had left. "You know, this game really doesn't work with only two people." I heard a chuckle and looked up at Specs, who had another one of those grins going. "What are you getting at?" I questioned, confused.

"Oh, nothing in particular; you're just so cute when you're flustered." I've never actually noticed anyone blushing from embarrassment, but I can guarantee at that moment I was blushing something fierce. And something can be said for that closed door enhancing the awkwardness. Since I'd awoken that morning sprawled underneath him, Specs and I had relied on every party game we could think up to entertain us. "Anyway, who knows? That might not be true by the time you leave," he announced in a painfully nonchalant fashion. And now I knew my cheeks burned as red as that metaphorical tomato. Suddenly, as if nothing else even left his mouth, he asked, "So then, what are we going to do to pass the time?"

About to respond, I realized his two statements did in fact relate, if only loosely. "I will have you know I am a very virtuous boy who is not about to be swept off his feet by the likes of you, Mr. Diopolus." I hoped the haughty accent I'd adopted would get the incident laughed off, but I've never possessed that much luck.

"Oh, excuse me for offending your delicate sensibilities, Mr. Taylor. But I beg you to recall our proximity _hier soir_. Are you truly sure you wish to abandon that?" I hated that he understood exactly how he affected me and managed to pull it into everything, including our jokes.

"True. I am your humble servant, here to do your bidding in exchange for one sweet, sweet night in your bed. But please, call me Jayce; let me act as though this is truly a romantic encounter. I adore you, my own personal Casanova." With that, I moved across the room and curled up against him for effect. Well, at least I'll claim it was for effect.

He looked down at me, looking surprisingly earnest. "You may not want to do that. I have very little self control." I felt disappointed as he slowly moved himself away, but a bit better when he compensated by resting his hand on mine. "Truth?" I nodded. "What's your greatest fear?"

"Being buried alive." It's ridiculous, I know, to be afraid of something that's highly unlikely to happen. But it's actually worse than that because it comes out in other situations as well. Any time I feel trapped in a small space, I panic. Elevators tend to terrify me. It's not claustrophobia, though, because I love sitting in my closet when I need to be by myself. Either way, the purpose was to get to know each other, not to continue an inner monologue about ourselves. "You?"

"Being left alone," he responded, with a blank honesty I hadn't seen before.

I squeezed his hand a bit tighter and hoped that would help. "What's your favorite flavor of soda?" I asked, changing the mood.

"Diet Coke, my mom loved the stuff. We drank it at least once a day, it was ridiculous." he responded, imitating me by squeezing my hand back. He wasn't comfortable with spoken vulnerability, I could tell. But non-verbal communication worked for him, and I'd just have to hope I could interpret what I needed to.

At this point, though, I was grinning at the mention of Diet Coke. I couldn't help my obsession with RENT, my friend Alex back home was completely infatuated. She made me listen to it constantly, and I had to admit that it was pretty exceptional. "So what, your house was like Cyberland?"

"You are such a flamer," he announced, grinning. At least he was distracted. And he understood references to Broadway musicals, which meant he wasn't any better. I told him as much, and he gave up on finding a retort, opting instead of slap me lightly.

"Ouch; you hit me, you ass."

I watched him thinking about what he was going to say next. He may not seem completely reserved, but he always thought about what he was saying before he said it. He seemed pretty happy with the idea. "You want me to kiss it and make it all better?" he cooed. Yes, cooed. I was judging him, I must say.

"As you wish," I quoted. He took me at my word and I can't say I was complaining about that.

Suddenly, it turned from an innocent peck on the cheek into a fierce assault on my neck. No words quite describe lavish attention being paid to my neck at this point. Somewhere between nipping and biting, but not quite. All I knew was that I liked it – and that there was finally someone who was interested when they weren't under the influence. That last thought heightened the excitement in my mind quite a bit.

"All right. Thing you want me to know the most right now?" he asked, continuing the game we'd started earlier before he stared moving to the bit of my chest that my shirt failed to cover.

I knew instantly what I needed him to know about me. "The drugs were the only reason anyone ever touched me," I confided. As soon as the words left my mouth, I understood something. I understood that he had admitted the same thing earlier. That the drugs were filling a hole we couldn't acknowledge ourselves.

"I've never kissed someone on the mouth. It's stupid, I know, but it's sort of an unspoken agreement in my interactions. I just, can't ever bring myself to do it," he confided. I knew he was attempting to explain himself. He just needed time. And I could give him that, if I needed to – we would be here for quite a while anyway, even outside of the three days in this room.

But at least, with that confession, it had moved past attraction. We weren't the same as the people who were in this situation before us. We weren't using each other, we needed each other.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I woke up next to Specs again, but this time we were in his bed. I was still fully clothed, since we hadn't really done much at all. But eventually the fact that we were, after all, sick caught up with us and we opted to take a nap. We knew we'd abandon normal sleeping hours anyway since we were locked up without a clock. I doubt the doctor even though we'd need one. They told us to expect him around six p.m., but we had no idea when that would be.

"If we're expecting company, I should probably get out of your bed, shouldn't I?" I asked, grudgingly. He nodded and I leaned over to kiss him. Abruptly he turned his head, offering up his cheek. "I'm sorry, really. I forgot. I'll try to remember it's just that I'm not used to that," I explained, feeling ridiculously insensitive. "I'll need something more than that cheek, though." I started towards his neck, attempting to return his earlier favor and then –

A man stood in the frame of the door, looking awkwardly down at the floor. "Sorry boys, but it's six. The name's Bryan Denton, if you were wondering. They sent me to check up on you. Looks like you're handling yourselves pretty well, though. I'll just check your temperature and remind you to drink copious amounts of fluid. Also, we're thinking that in about twenty-four hours you'll be able to go out, instead of waiting the extra day. I'll have to look you over before you leave, but I doubt you'll still be contagious." And true to his word, Denton didn't stay long. He just stuck a thermometer in our mouths and waited.

Specs was running a fever while mine was going down. Most likely he'd gotten sick from me, and that's why I was getting better. Either way, I realized I wasn't going to have all that time to kill getting to know Specs – but it wasn't like I wouldn't see him at least after dark and in group. Not that we could really make out during group, but you get the general idea.

"Oh, and Medda wants to go ahead and meet with each of you for your sessions anyway. She decided you really couldn't miss three days of any therapy, so that's her compromise. She'll be in about thirty minutes after I leave, so be expecting that," he added, grinning.

After Denton had walked out, Specs and I just looked at each other. After a couple of seconds both of us started to laugh. He had this great light chuckle of someone who didn't laugh enough, and thus savored every time. I knew I wanted to be the person to make him laugh,

"Specs," I said. "I want to be something to you." I knew I was moving fast, but I didn't want to waste any time. Plus, if he responded negatively, at least I'd have an idea how serious (or not) he felt about what we'd done earlier in our lockup. "I don't know what yet, but something."

He nodded. "I do too, but – I can't promise to do everything perfect. It'll be – I'll be difficult. I won't say the right things and I might do the wrong things. But I can try, if that's what you want."

It was the most honest thing he'd told me so far and I could see him starting to regret it. For once he didn't think before he spoke; I knew I had to tell Specs that was alright. "I know," I answered softly. I reached over and kissed his forehead. "We can try."

"I should warn you," he said, sounding only slightly more comfortable. "I don't have much faith in high school relationships."

I understood, obviously, after my previous failures. "I don't have much faith in relationships in general," I admitted. I wished at that moment it was untrue. I wanted so bad to have that hope, but I simply didn't.

"Let's prove each other wrong," he whispered, almost so softly I thought I'd imagined it. Slowly, I pulled away and moved across the room to my own bed. I used Medda's imminent arrival as an excuse, but really I couldn't think of a response to something as beautiful as what he'd said. I'd gotten what I needed for the moment, so I could wait without pushing it for a bit.

Almost on cue, Medda opened the door and proceeded into the room, dragging a chair in behind her. "Jayce, we should go ahead and get started. If you don't mind, Specs, could you listen to some music to give us some privacy?" she asked, handing him headphones.

"I heard about you and Specs from Denton," she announced bluntly. I briefly thought how strange it was that even the councilors referred to him by his nickname, but then realized that he introduced himself using that name. "I'm glad to see you're taking such a necessary step, for both of you. That's all I can really say about that right now; I thought you should know. Also, I know last time we were discussing what led to your problem, but maybe we should pass on that today and talk about something else important – why you chose to check yourself in."

I started trying to explain that my mother had found the drugs and there was already a woman over at the house to talk to her about rehab programs. But halfway through that story I realized I was lying. "My mom recommended rehab, but I knew somehow she wouldn't place the call. Somehow, watching her sit there and have to decide between possibly alienating me or letting me continue using drugs forced me to call. I grabbed the brochure and checked myself in before she could. If you grow up with an extraordinary mother like mine, it's easy to choose between making yourself suffer and making her."

Medda nodded, marking down words on a yellow pad of notebook paper. You can't imagine what I would have given to read those notes, to know what they thought was going on with me. "I know you live with only your mother, tell me more about that situation."

"Well, she is a single mom, as you obviously already know. She's also thirty-four, so she basically gave up her life to try and make mine worthwhile. My father said he was prepared to take the initiative and help raise me, but he bailed after only about six months." I hated relating this story because I had to think about the fact that my own father wanted nothing to do with me. At the same time, I wouldn't even think about trading my family. "I guess I feel like I screwed up her plans enough as it is – not that I blame myself, but I do acknowledge that she wanted to do more by this point in her life – and this was just letting her down again and that's something I can't handle." Did I mention I ramble? A lot?

"Do you think it's helping you at all? Being here?" I will always admire Medda's ability to ask a direct question that forced me to ponder. They were like being slammed up against a brick wall, those questions.

I nodded slowly and she looked at her watch, noting the session would have ended in real time. She set down the pencil for a second. "If you want to keep talking, tell me now. I can say I got distracted and didn't notice the time."

"I think Specs needs this time with you more than I do. But thank you, truly." She reminded me that her door was open to me whenever I needed guidance about my substance abuse or other situations. After that, I headed across the room, grabbing the headphones from Specs and letting him take his place with Medda.

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Time still evaded me, but I could see that it was near sundown when they finished talking. I began to regret not listening in on the exchange right after she left. My roommate simply came over and climbed into my bed without speaking, lying down next to me and refusing to move.

"Please, just don't talk. I need a few minutes," he cautioned awkwardly before closing his eyes. Just as I started to assume he'd passed out, he spoke up again. "So, why didn't you tell me you'd checked yourself in?"

I probably shouldn't' have been as surprised as I acted just then. Specs had listened, which made sense because he'd been in the room the whole. And, inexplicably, I wasn't that upset when he explained why. "I wanted to know more about you, and I didn't know how to ask. My will-power sucks."

Suddenly arms appeared around my waist and I settled back into Specs' chest. "Do we tell them? That we're – well, whatever we are?" I had only just come to Whispering Pines, they weren't my friends. But for Specs, I couldn't guess which optioned he preferred.

"I think they'll figure it out for themselves. The entire staff seems to know anyway," he responded, grinning. My instincts wanted me to kiss him right then, but I knew there was more waiting before he would let me. In terms of physical contact, we were trapped with cuddling, primarily. In no way was I ready to do what he was used to, and he wasn't ready for some things of his own.

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"Truth," I proclaimed as Specs' eyes opened and he propped himself up a bit. "Your first time. What happened?" As long as we were being invasive, I might as well find out what I wanted to know.

"Grudgefuck. Which are not nearly as hot as they make it sound in stories. I don't really know – we fought all the time and one day it just went past that." I knew I must have been staring at him in abject horror because he started to avoid my eyes. "Second time was better though. Couple of months later around midterms, so I was probably about to turn sixteen. Jack Blair. We dated around four weeks before that and maybe another four after." He paused for a while, brushing a stray curl out of his face and shoving it back behind his ear. "You don't want to know about the rest."

He asked about my first boyfriend, since I couldn't answer the earlier question. I told him about Thom. But not the way I explained Thom to Medda. Of course that came out, but I focused on some of the better moments we shared. "Once we went out to the mall to ice skate – because yes, we ice skate indoors in Texas – and for some reason I just forgot how to skate. I fell flat on my ass maybe thirty times. And Thom just came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me to try and keep me upright, but that meant he fell over maybe six times along with me. The whole time we just laughed, not caring. That's why I thought it was love, not the physical side, really."

One hand found mine, weaving the two together like the French braids every girl wore in seventh grade.

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A/N: Alright. Since this took me nearly two months to put out because I completely abandoned it for a while, I'm just going to go ahead and post it at six pages. I know what's going to come up next (and for a while… I'm planning for once!) and since I'm so infatuated with these characters, I'm hoping to get it up pretty fast. However, the week before Winter Break is kicking my ass and my friend comes back from Switzerland where she's been since September the day I get out of school. So I make no promises, sorry.

I know they're talking a lot in this. I never write this much straight dialogue. But if you've only got one other person locked in a room with you, that tends to happen.

I, by the way, really tend to like shoutouts. I like to read other people's shououts, which might make me creepy. So I think they're banned on now, but I still want to write them. I won't right now, but does anyone really care if I do?

One last thing (this is getting so long, I apologize): I really want some criticism on this. I know it's not particularly great, though I think it's not bad. I'm in high school and trying so hard to improve my writing skills, so feedback is very, very welcome. I've had 16 hits on this story since reset the hits counter, and only one review in the past two months. I'm not great about reviewing either, but if you notice something, please bring it up.

I talk too much. Hope you liked.


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